Wounded warrior

Cleansing

As the days passed, whispers in the neighborhood grew louder.

People didn’t think I heard them —

but pain sharpens some senses.

I would be standing outside for a bit of sun, leaning on the wall for balance, and I’d hear them:

“Look at him…

ever since that thing happened, he’s not the same.”

“Shame man… he can’t even walk properly anymore.”

“He went back to that girl… no wonder things got worse.”

“Rebecca bewitched him, you can see.”

Each word sliced deeper than the wound in my back.

Some spoke softly as they walked by.

Others pretended to care but watched me like I was a burden.

And every time I caught their eyes, they quickly looked away.

I was becoming a ghost in my own street — present but unspoken, seen but not respected, alive but treated like a mistake.

Still… Rebecca stayed beside me, every step, every breath.

She kept her hand near my elbow, ready to catch me if my leg decided to betray me.

And sometimes when she heard the gossip, she would whisper:

“Don’t worry about them, baby.

People only talk when they don't know the truth.”

But deep inside, the pain stayed with me.

One afternoon, a group of neighbors stood outside chatting loudly. When they saw me walking slowly past the gate, leaning on the wall, their voices dropped to low murmurs.

Rebecca noticed immediately.

And she snapped.

She walked out of the yard, stood in front of the group, her voice steady but sharp:

“Stop talking about him like he’s some broken thing.

You weren’t there when he almost died.

You didn’t wipe his blood.

You didn’t carry him.

You didn’t feed him when he couldn’t lift a spoon.”

They fell silent.

“And you weren’t there,” she continued, “when he woke up crying from pain you can’t even imagine.”

One of the women tried to speak,

“Rebecca… we didn’t mean—”

But she cut her off.

“Then stop.

Just stop.

If you can’t help him heal, at least keep your mouth shut.”

They stared at her, shocked, embarrassed, silent.

Then she turned back to me, took my hand, and walked me home.

Once inside, she looked at me and said:

“People forget kindness when they're uncomfortable.

But I won’t.”

Those words felt like a blanket over my wounded soul.

The next week, I went for my first physiotherapy appointment. Rebecca’s mother arranged the taxi, and even though the journey was short, my heart raced the entire way.

I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know if they could really help me. I didn’t know if the stiffness was reversible or just my new reality.

When we arrived, the physiotherapist — a gentle man named Mr. Khumalo — examined my hand and leg.

He moved my fingers one by one. Pain shot up my arm.

“Try to relax,” he whispered.

I tried.

I failed.

He lifted my leg. It stiffened like metal. My breath caught.

He nodded slowly.

“This will take time,” he said.

“But you’re here — and that means you want to fight.”

I didn’t answer. I just stared at my hands, these traitors of mine.

He placed his hand on my shoulder.

“You survived what many wouldn’t,” he said softly.

“That tells me you’re stronger than your symptoms.”

Those words lit something inside me.

The same spark Rebecca had lit days earlier… now burned a little brighter.

That night back at Rebecca’s place, I lay in bed, my hand throbbing, my leg burning, my mind racing.

I thought of Angela.

Of the unborn baby.

Of my mother’s tears.

Of Rebecca’s strength.

Of the doctor’s warning.

And I whispered to myself:

“Maybe I can fight this.”

Not because the road looked easy.

But because giving up was starting to feel like a bigger pain than the injury itself.

Rebecca walked in quietly, sat next to me, and kissed my forehead.

“We’ll get through this,” she said.

Not you —

we.

Her voice anchored me.

For the first time since the stabbing, I felt like maybe I wasn’t losing myself…

Maybe I was rediscovering the fiercest version of me.

It was late afternoon when I heard a familiar deep voice calling my name from outside the gate.

“Tebelo! Ayikho lento oyifunayo lapho? Come here, grootman…”

It was my uncle, Sibusiso.

Not at the door. Not inside the yard. Not even at the gate.

He was sitting on a rock across the street, hands clasped, staring at the ground like a man unsure of his place.

I felt Rebecca’s eyes on me as I stood up slowly, steadying myself against the wall.

“You okay?” she asked.

I nodded, even though the stiffness in my leg disagreed.

I walked out — dragging my leg a little, my hand curled against my chest — and when my uncle saw me, he stood up immediately.

The look on his face said everything. Shock. Pain. Guilt. Love. All mixed into one.

“Tebelo…” he breathed out.

For a moment, he just watched me walk. Every step I took seemed to cut him inside.

He didn’t come closer. He let me approach at my own pace, like he was afraid of breaking me even more.

When I finally reached him, he cleared his throat softly.

“I was… just passing by,” he said.

But that was a lie.

I could see it in his eyes.

No one “just passes by” three streets away from their own without a reason.

He wanted to see me. But he didn’t want to seem intrusive. Didn’t want to anger my family. Didn’t want to step into Rebecca’s yard without permission.

He stood with his hands behind his back like a soldier caught off-duty.

“You’re looking better,” he said, but his voice cracked at the end — because I didn’t look better, not to him.

“You eating well?”

I nodded.

“You sleeping?”

I shook my head.

He sighed deeply.

“I heard about… the seizures,” he whispered.

I looked down.

For a moment he just stared at me — not the way the neighbors stared, not with pity, not with judgment.

But like Sibusiso — the uncle who carried me like a feather during the worst days, the uncle who never once treated me like a burden.

He took a step closer.

“If you need me… if anything happens… I’m close. You hear me?”

I nodded again, swallowing hard.

He looked back at Rebecca’s house, then at me.

“I don’t want to interfere… but just know — you’re not alone, boy.”

Those words softened something inside me.

He opened his arms a little, unsure if I was strong enough for a hug.

I stepped forward.

He held me gently at first, then tighter, his chin pressing on my shoulder.

For a second, I felt like a child again — safe in the arms of someone who didn’t care about gossip, judgment, or who I lived with.

Just me. Alive.

He pulled back and looked at me one last time.

“I must go.” He tapped my chest. “Stay strong, mfana.”

Then he walked away slowly, looking back twice, as if he wasn’t sure he should leave.

As if walking away from me hurt him more than he wanted to admit.